


Five Minutes

by LR Bowen (LRBowen_MadameManga)



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:07:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25873339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LRBowen_MadameManga/pseuds/LR%20Bowen
Summary: Based on the episode "Deadlock". The alternate Voyager, overrun by Vidiian organ harvesters, has only five minutes before the self-destruct blows. Will Janeway let Chakotay tell her how he feels?(Testing. I’m stripping stuff from the Pit of Voles to put here. They don’t make it easy.)
Relationships: Janeway/Chakotay
Comments: 10
Kudos: 17





	Five Minutes

Star Trek: Voyager is copyright by Paramount Pictures, Inc. No infringement is intended. Story is copyright by L.R. Bowen, LRBowen@aol.com . Do not sell or print for sale without the express written permission of the author, and do not circulate without the author's name and this disclaimer attached. Permission is granted to circulate free of charge in electronic form. Please do not archive without contacting the author.

This is an interpretation of the last part of "Deadlock", in which an alternate Voyager was captured by Vidiians, and Janeway sent Harry Kim to replace his dead counterpart on the real ship. If you have not seen this episode, it may not make complete sense to you.

Five Minutes  
by L.R. Bowen  
1996

"Harry, you've got five minutes. Get the baby."

Poor Harry, dumbfounded brown eyes, a puppy told to get out of my sight-

"But, Captain-"

Chakotay, awful clarity of vision, don't look at him, Kathryn, not now, he's gone still, perfect rest, not tense, not slumped, phaser still dangling in his hand, he was fighting so hard a moment ago...

"Move it, Ensign. That's an _order."_

Stubborn, Harry, I don't like that because it's too much like me, and watch it, that's going to get you killed some day, and did a few hours ago-Chakotay's head jerking around as if he'd echo me, but he knows he needn't say a word. Did she cry when you died? Such a lonely death, poor boy, the hand slipping, clasp gone, all alone out there, forever. Get out of here. Go and live, Harry-and thank that little girl for your life while you're at it, because without her to think of you might have been too damn stubborn after all. Go. Gone.

"Computer, initiate the self-destruct sequence."

Turn to the chair, last time, Kathryn, he's shadowing you, turning to your side, last time, he'll sit quiet by you once more. No pause.

"Authorization: Janeway, Pi One One Zero. Set at five minutes and mute voice warnings."

And settle, straight-backed, face forward, but look at him now. Clarity, perfect rest. The deep breath, the composing of the face, and he sets that phaser carefully down, to fight no more, forever. Last time.

"Enable."

And the voice tells me, with all the passion of her programming, that Voyager has her sentence and the gun to her head, the noose around her throat, poised at the cliff, the pursuers near but not near enough, the maiden leaps when they think they have her. They'll clutch her by her slender waist, fumble to tear the gown, and she'll smile. No fate worse than death for me, she says, and you go with me, ravishers, fall past me into fiery hell. Goodbye.

Tom, goodbye. The seat's vacant, the pilot's lost now. Did you die well? Kes, I won't think of bodies laid open, bright eyes harvested. That's not my memory. Fair face, farewell. Five minutes to fill, with memories.

Less time to live, less of the creeping dark, dear God. Less time for the reapers to do their work. Pass, oh, pass, backwards, turn backwards, Time in thy flight. Make me a child again, just for tonight... Rain and snow, sun and water. Love and knowledge, home, and outwards. Can't think of it all. Shouldn't think of it all. Look forward. Live. Last time.

All gone with me, God, all together, thank God. No one left alone. Goodbye, Tuvok. I'll come with you soon, my friend, not soon enough. Keep it tight, Kathryn, keep the breathing steady, the eyes dry. There are no tears, for this is war. I'll rise, when they come, and I'll greet them, and welcome them, the body-slaves of death, who fight so hard against her with death herself at their head. So much death in their cause of life. I'll have no conscience for that pitiable fact. There are no more tears for them.

Shift beside me, though he's just now settled. Breathing, deep, slow, feeling his life beat within him, looking for the center of it, to clasp it. He'll be holding it in the cradle of his hands. No memories, but lift and raise his life, an offering, forward to his ancestors. They'll be standing all around us now, holding out their hands, wondering that they came so far for one life, to fetch him home. Who goes with him?

"Kathryn..."

Oh, light, lightness, and it burns the eyes, shocks the lids wide open, blindness fallen at once, vision blurring. The sting's too much. No, don't say this, don't do this, I need my resolve, I need your perfect rest. I will greet them, and say, Welcome, and I will have no tears. Don't do this.

"Kathryn, please look at me."

Will you make this as hard as possible? Do I deserve this at your hands, Chakotay? Don't say this. Don't tell me what I have to live for, what I might have had to live for. For five minutes, even.

"Just look at me."

No sob, no breaking, just soft voice, a little hoarse from all the shouting he's done below decks. How many did he see die? So many he's seen die, and is horror the last sight for his eyes? Will you leave him thus alone, with only death to take with him?

"Please."

I'll turn to him, last time, Kathryn, I'll turn and let him see the resolve. He doesn't want tears. This is some kind of peace, this awful clarity. He's holding out his right hand, cupped a little, his life an offering in the hollow of his palm. All his life. Death not to part. All of us together, clasping hands outstretched to us in a long chain, linked hand to hand. In the cradle of his palm, a new life. Five minutes, and it's a lifetime, and he'd give it if it were fifty years. All his life, and mine.

And I'll take it, and turn over the palm to spill it into my hand, receive it to myself. To count out the seconds of a life is impossible, like counting breaths, or the universal drifting stars, but I'll count them, name every one. I can shape each of them as a moment distinct; beginning, middle, and end, each unique, each passing me in their ranks with their slow deliberate tread. I see them march forward, one by one, and fall. The enemy claims them, and oh, God, grant me every moment of my life. There is no creeping dark, and there is no horror, and it shall have no dominion. I will not go gentle. I will go dry-eyed, and with a greeting on my lips, and with every soul ranked behind me, ready to go with me. And beside me, one more; the last soul, the last moment, who will stay with me when all the others have gone before. I will stand when the time comes, with him turning to me, shadowing me. I will go with him.

He's looking at me with eyes that have never seen me before. His hand resting in mine, palm down. I will not cling, but I will grip, to print my fingers in his flesh, to leave some mark of my life. I will at last leave something of myself with him. Touched, so many times, but never having lingered. He will leave something of himself with me. Something has just been born, and we carry it between us, cradling it in our palms, holding it against the dark, and the reapers. No one can take it to safety now, poor new child, and it dies with us, five minutes old. No...

If I could separate it from us, I would. Must it take the long journey home with us? If I could order it carried away, and to its parents' embrace... Or has it a perfect twin already, waiting, gestating, unborn? Will she let it come forth, oh, Kathryn, will you let it grow, will you let it live to learn to speak? This child is mute. Let it speak, let him speak, let him ask you to turn to him, to look him in the face. His lips parted, dear God, his eyes that have never seen me before. I will have this my last memory.

Turbolift doors open, and there they are, hideous as the damned. Oh, Harry, I know you made it past them, a tiny life in your hands. I know it. I'm turning, and the clasp is broken, but he's with me still. As long as he lives, no more than an arm's reach away.

"Hello."

Rise, and greet them, steady-voiced, dry-eyed. He's right behind me. I've got backup, buster.

"I'm Captain Kathryn Janeway. Welcome to the bridge."

They're surprised at my calm, I think, and quite right too. Suspicious; and too late, alas for them. Did they never think that we could meet them with the death they try so hard to cheat? She has risen to welcome them, her slaves. There's one of them, pointing at the display, red numerals ticking down. Two more seconds. Each, a lifetime. They look only at their own finality now, and I have greeted them. I've died well.

I will turn, and take his hand, and let him encircle me. Let us fuse at last, scatter together. They are all waiting for us. The shape of this moment, forever set, indestructible. Beginning, we embrace, and my head goes to his chest, our handclasp caught between us. He's warm, and alive, his body firm in my arms, his breaths so deep I feel them on my hair. Tighter, tighter, and I breathe only his scent, the universe contracting in his embrace. If I were to weep now, I would have cause, but for joy. We hover like that until the end of the moment, when his head comes down, mine goes up, and we almost meet.

Almost, because the swift whisper passes over us, and we stand rigid, shells that hold us no longer, and we drift away.


End file.
